


The Pursuit

by faithtastic



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Bounty Hunters, Clexaweek2020, Crack Treated Seriously, F/F, Smut, save a horse ride a cowgirl, the one time I can get away with using the word 'nethers', thirst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:35:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23037175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithtastic/pseuds/faithtastic
Summary: Renowned across the frontier as one of the fastest, deadliest guns in the West, there's been no lack of adventure in the life of bounty hunter Lexa Woods. But she gets far more than she bargained for when she stops by the local saloon before taking on her next job.Because that's when Lexa seesher.
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 119
Kudos: 579





	The Pursuit

**Author's Note:**

> Shout outs to Dreamsaremywords and Orange for being enablers. Huge thanks also to Syn for the beta.

The saloon doors swing open with an ominous groan and every pair of eyes swivels towards the newcomer, a lean, rangy figure backlit by the blazing noonday sun.

Clad head to toe in black, save for the red bandana knotted loosely around her throat, Lexa cuts an impressive silhouette, despite the slightness of her stature. It’s in the manner that she holds herself, spine straight and shoulders squared, chin held aloft, a shadow cast over her eyes by the wide brim of her hat as she surveys the shabby bar room.

There’s half a dozen tables scattered about; the fellas sat around them staring, mid-hand of cards. The piano player shrugs and starts up again, battering out a discordant tune that vies with the howl of the wind rushing down the main street, rattling the window panes and whistling through the gaps in the timbers. It’s early yet, but the stale smell of liquor, sweat, and pipe smoke already clogs the air and makes Lexa’s nostrils twitch.

She spares the patrons only a cursory glance—by their trail-worn attire, a motley assortment of prospectors, trappers, ranch hands, and cattle men, gambling and drinking away their meagre earnings in the last outpost of civilisation on the edge of the frontier—and Lexa intuits not a single threat amongst them.

Judiciously, the men turn their attention back towards their games as she struts towards the bar, the spurs on her riding boots clinking with every footstep. Her signature long leather duster flares out behind her like a cape, showing off a hefty pair of .44s. One holstered on each hip, the pearl inset handles gleaming in the light.

The barkeep eyes the revolvers warily as he resumes cleaning a glass with a dishrag, his movements stiff, a nearly imperceptible tremble in his fingers and elbows. But Lexa notices; always does. You don’t get to where she is now without being observant.

She touches her hat by way of silent greeting, then rests that same hand on the piece at her left hip. A study in quiet intimidation.

The barkeep’s throat jumps, his adam’s apple bobbing above the starched white collar of his shirt. “Afternoon, stranger. Mighty blustery out today, ain’t it? Could be a dust storm heading this way, by the looks of it.”

Lexa has never been one for making pleasantries—least of all about the weather when it’s stickier than Lucifer’s armpit, in spite of the strong gusts carrying milder air in from the mountains—and she isn’t about to change the habit of a lifetime now.

Her cool, implacable stare only unsettles him further.

“So, uh—What can I get you, ma’am?”

“Information.”

He shoots her a look, but remains tight-lipped.

“Any unsavoury types drift into these parts lately?”

“We get all kinds passing through, but most folks keep to themselves. This here’s a peaceful town, and Sheriff Kane aims to keep it that way.”

“I’m aware,” Lexa says without inflection. She runs her thumb idly along the handle of her gun. “It’s why he sent for me and my boys.”

That piques the barkeep’s interest, his gaze turning more curious than cautious. “And, pardon me, who might you be?”

“Lexa Woods.” A woman’s voice carries above the din of the piano and Lexa turns her head to look, to find a voluptuous blonde at the top of the staircase, a hand on her hip, the other draped along the bannister.

With her flaxen curls pinned half-up, a few long ringlets left down and scooped over one bare shoulder, she’s a vision in red satin and lace. Lexa can’t pry her eyes away as the woman descends, ruffled skirts hoisted up far enough to afford a glimpse of well-turned ankles and the hint of shapely calves.

The woman glides across the room, serenely ignoring the wolf whistles and raucous hollering from a couple of the more inebriated miscreants in their midst. She steps up to rest an elbow on the liquor-stained oak countertop of the bar, tilting her head as she regards Lexa; openly appraising.

“Have we met?” Lexa asks, although she’s certain she would recall if they had, because this woman is possessed of the most striking blue eyes; as bright and vast as a prairie sky.

And that ain’t all that’s remarkable about her.

Lexa’s gaze drops to the woman’s décolletage, the ample bosom straining against the confines of the sequined bodice. Lexa wets her chapped lips and forces her eyes back up, only to be met with a knowing smirk, made all the more arresting by the freckle that sits above it.

“Not until today,” the woman replies, voice like the rasp of a well-honed blade over a leather strop. “But I read all about you in the Polis Post.”

Lexa mirrors her position. 

Juts her chin out. “That so?”

“Mhm.” Those cornflower blue eyes make an unsubtle sweep over Lexa’s form. “Although, the picture didn’t do you justice.”

She feels heat creep up her neck beneath the bandana, and it’s got nothing to do with the sweltering temperature of the midsummer’s day. It takes some effort to corral the smile that tugs at the corner of her mouth, but she schools her expression. Inscrutable once more.

“Seems you have me at a disadvantage, Miss…?”

“Clarke.”

“Miss Clarke,” Lexa echos, testing the shape of the name. She tips her hat. “Pleasure.”

“It could be.”

A little smile adorns Clarke’s rouged lips as she holds Lexa’s stare, the suggestive tone and the arch of one dark blonde brow making her meaning abundantly clear. Lexa’s eyes drift again, down the column of Clarke’s throat, across her clavicles and lower, lingering for a second or two on the plump swells rising above the low cut of the dress. The sight of all that fair skin leaves Lexa’s mouth drier than the scorched desert she rode through for two straight weeks to reach this place.

“You look mighty parched, Miss Woods. Care to join me for a refreshment?”

Lexa doesn’t look away from that pretty face as she tells the barkeep smoothly, “Two shots of your best whiskey, sir.”

While he pours the liquor, Clarke draws a mite closer. Close enough that Lexa gets a whiff of perfume, a beguiling floral scent that makes her want to press her nose to the source and draw it deep into her lungs.

“Tell me, what brings you to Arcadia?” Clarke asks. “Are you hot on the trail of some depraved criminal whose infamy precedes them?”

“Depends. Seen anyone who fits that description around here?”

Clarke’s lips twist and she turns her face away, eyes wandering over the array of green and brown bottles lined up along the gantry.

She shrugs. “Can’t rightly say that I have.”

When she meets Lexa’s gaze again, there’s something in Clarke’s veiled expression that Lexa can’t decipher. Untold mysteries lurking behind those eyes that she would dearly love to uncover if she didn’t have other pressing business to attend to.

The barkeep slides them a tumbler each and they lift their drinks in a silent salute, tossing back the contents in one gulp. Lexa clenches her jaw as the whiskey burns down her gullet like liquid fire, spreading warmth through her chest.

“What about you?” she inquires once the sensation subsides, studying the other woman intently.

“Me?” Clarke brings a hand to her chest, feigning innocence. An act that even the most gullible fool wouldn’t buy. “Whatever do you mean?”

Wearing a faint smirk, Lexa signals the barkeep for another round.

“I mean, what’s a refined young lady such as yourself doing amongst these degenerates and reprobates?”

Throwing Lexa a haughty look, Clarke draws herself up. “I ain’t a soiled dove, if that’s what you’re implying.”

A wider smile burrows into Lexa’s cheek. “Hey now, some of the finest women I’ve ever known are whores.”

She taps her glass against Clarke’s and flings the liquor down her throat. It’s no less unpleasant the second time, but Lexa’s starting to feel a nice little buzz that makes her posture loosen just a smidge, along with her tongue.

“If anything, it’s a compliment.”

With a purse of her lips, Clarke follows suit in draining her glass, slamming the empty tumbler down on the bar when she’s done.

“Again,” she tells the barkeep, eyes on Lexa’s.

This time he just slides the bottle over and walks away.

“And do you often associate with scarlet ladies in your line of work?” Clarke asks as she pours them both a generous shot. The whiskey has given her voice an even smokier, rough-hewn edge, and Lexa finds herself physically drawn in by the sound, the distance between them having shrunk some without her realising it.

“They’re useful informants,” she answers matter-of-factly. “Men like to brag—outlaws ‘specially. And they tend to run their mouths most when they’ve just gotten laid.”

She chuckles at the moue of distaste that briefly distorts Clarke’s features. 

“In any case, you didn’t answer my question before,” Lexa says, reaching for her drink and taking a measured sip. Holding it in her mouth, letting the aroma and flavour linger on her tongue. She peers at Clarke over the rim. “It don’t seem like you’re from this backwater burg, neither.”

Clarke lifts her glass and stares into the amber liquid. “No, that I ain’t.”

She throws it back and Lexa watches the movement of Clarke’s pale throat as she swallows. How Clarke dabs at her lips with her fingers afterwards, catching an errant drop of whiskey on her thumb before it dribbles down her chin. She sucks the tip into her mouth, hums absently, and when their eyes catch again, the sheer _wanting_ hits Lexa hard and fast like a swift punch to the gut, setting off a low down throb in her nethers.

“I’m just passing the time.” 

Clarke runs her wet thumb along the chipped edge of the bar and all Lexa can think about is that same thumb dragging between her thighs.

“Waiting for the next stage to take me back West.” Clarke lets out a wistful sigh. “Back to the loving embrace of my family in San Francisco. My pappy owns a cannery there, you see; big operation, lots of workers.”

In a bid to ignore her predicament, Lexa shifts her stance and that tiny bit of friction doesn’t do a damn thing to alleviate her discomfort.

A muscle ticks in her cheek.

She sounds a mite strained when she asks, “You travelling without a chaperone? This here is dangerous territory.”

“Oh, heavens, no. My father has a couple of hired men to protect me.” There’s a glint of sly cunning in Clarke’s eyes that doesn't help matters either. ”They usually stop me from getting into _too_ much trouble.”

Lexa glances around, seeing no sign of these bodyguards. “Where are they now?”

“Sleeping off their sore heads at the Sanctum Hotel up the street. For such large fellas, they sure can’t hold their liquor.” A slight pout. “Which leaves me all on my lonesome.”

The honourable, upstanding side of Lexa—the consummate professional whose word is her bond—knows she really ought to go pay Sheriff Kane a visit, since he summoned her so urgently by telegraph, but... she isn’t ready to part ways from such fascinating company just yet.

“Well, can’t have that, can we?”

So she chugs the whiskey and pushes the glass towards Clarke for a refill. Removes her hat, knocking some dust off before placing it down flat on the bartop. Lexa’s hair might be tangled, full of dirt and sand from the trail, the braids woven through it starting to come loose, but even unwashed and unkempt, that wild mane is her crowning glory. Her mother, God rest her soul, said it often enough. And judging by the enamoured look on Clarke’s face, she must be of a similar mind too.

Basking a little under the attention, Lexa allows her smile free rein. Only to have it wiped away by Clarke’s next words.

“I’ve got a room there, too,” she says huskily. “At the hotel.”

She lets the statement hang.

Their eyes lock and it’s electric.

Like the static charge in the air when a storm is brewing out on the range, just before the skies open and the deluge comes.

Lexa can taste it; feel it.

A hum of energy crackling beneath her skin.

“Is that an invitation?” she asks in a low voice, scarcely to be heard above the badly-tuned piano. The tempo of the music matches the runaway gallop of her heart, pounding harder inside her chest than the thundering hooves of an entire herd of stampeding horses.

Clarke bats her lashes. “Would you accept if it was?”

Daringly, she trails her hand down the lapel of Lexa’s duster. The touch may as well be against her bare skin for the way it stokes the fire in Lexa’s belly. She grabs that roving hand before it brushes over her breast, taking hold of Clarke’s slender wrist. Holding it captive. Feeling the fast flutter of Clarke’s pulse beneath her fingertips.

They remain like that and Lexa can’t rightly tell if it’s the potent effect of the whiskey or the proximity of this bewitching woman that’s making her feel light-headed all of a sudden.

Helpless not to, she looks down between them and gets stuck on the slight heave of Clarke’s chest, mesmerised for a moment by the shallow rise and fall. Then her eyes snap back up, and the quiet catch of Clarke’s breath doesn’t escape Lexa’s notice.

Green bores into blue—least, what remains of it. Clarke’s pupils are huge; two ovals of polished obsidian.

“I’d be a darn fool not to,” Lexa murmurs at last, once she finds her voice.

The devilish grin that earns her has Lexa pondering exactly which one of them is the hunter and which is the bounty here. But before she can dwell too much on the reversal, Clarke gently pulls free. Leans in close and brings her mouth next to Lexa’s ear, a wash of warm breath lifting the hairs on the back of her neck.

“Come by after supper. I’ll be waiting.”

  
  


~*~

  
  


Instead of stopping by the Sheriff’s office—Kane can keep for another day—Lexa moseys on down to Miss Indra’s boarding house, where she and the boys are bedding down for the night. She pays a few coins for a bath to be drawn and spends the next while up to her shoulders in fragrant suds, scrubbing the grime from her body until her skin is pink and her hair rinses clear. She doesn’t own much (or anything) in the way of finery, but she puts on a clean calico blouse and pressed town trousers, held up with her good pair of suspenders. She polishes her boots until the leather is shiny and takes just as long cleaning her pistols before sliding them into the snug two-rig belt slung low on her hips.

She considers doing something different with her hair for a bit, but in the end braids it while it’s still damp, nimble fingers moving with ingrained muscle memory as she twists the strands together and ties off the ends with cotton twine.

It’s still unbearably hot, though the wind has died down to a brisk breeze, so she forgoes the duster, leaving it hanging on the hook beside the door. She dons her hat and, with one last glance at her reflection in the mirror, adjusts the tilt of the brim.

On the landing, she hears Gustus and Ryder’s heavy footfalls before she sees them lumbering into view.

“Heading out, boss?” Ryder asks jovially.

Lexa’s face remains impassive. “Making a social call.”

The men take in her appearance and exchange a silent glance. Both know better than to remark on how she looks, well turned-out or otherwise, but the lift of their eyebrows conveys enough.

She passes them with a curt, “Don’t wait up. And don’t get into any drunken brawling or carousing, you hear? I don’t want no trouble with the law.”

Their grumbles of complaint follow her down the stairs.

  
  


~*~

  
  


The Sanctum is decked out in surprisingly opulent style for an establishment this far out in the wilderness. The plush carpets and tasseled drapes, the crystal chandelier in the lobby, down to the snooty, crisply-uniformed staff manning the front desk could all be transported from a grand hotel in Paris or London. Or so Lexa imagines. The farthest east she’s been is Chicago, which is as near to a foreign country as she’s ever likely to get.

But that’s by the by. She isn’t here to admire the decor or the hospitality.

She has one singular concern in mind, and anticipation is coiled tight in her belly when she raps her knuckles against the door of the room at the end of the corridor. 

Seconds trickle by.

While she waits, she leans a shoulder against the wall. Legs crossed at the ankles. Casual-like. Although inside her nerves are jangling like a gunslinger’s in the eerie lull before a quick draw.

She listens out for movement, hears some indistinct shuffling and scraping, then the faint patter of feet before the door is finally thrown open.

Without so much as a “howdy”, Clarke gets straight down to brass tacks. Pounces. Just grabs Lexa by the front of her blouse and yanks her inside the room, into a kiss so forceful it knocks the hat clean off Lexa’s head.

It’s more of a mauling than a kiss, but Lexa surely isn’t complaining. She’s always appreciated a girl with spirit and, heck, Clarke has it in spades. It’s only when they break for air that Lexa takes command. She spins them around and traps Clarke’s front against the closed door. Busies herself with the tiny fastenings on the dress while she sucks a possessive kiss at the top of Clarke’s spine, letting out a low growl when she can’t get the garment undone fast enough.

But Lexa triumphs eventually, shoving rough handfuls of silk from Clarke’s body, then she gets to work on loosening the stays of the corset. All the while Clarke is breathing heavily, half laughing at Lexa’s little grunts of frustration until at last she frees Clarke of the restrictive contraption, peeling it off and letting it land with a dull thud on the floor.

Lexa tugs Clark back around by the elbow.

Only to pull in a soft gasp.

Because a perfect, narrow beam of sunlight is cast across Clarke’s features, catching her eyes and making them glow. Irises so astoundingly blue, they don’t seem real.

Lexa ain’t the religious sort, but Clarke in this light is verging on something holy.

She doesn’t know what her face is doing presently—whatever it is makes Clarke shake her head. “Don’t be looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you intend to court me.”

Before Lexa can deny that patently absurd accusation, Clarke hauls her back in. Their lips crash together, moving with reckless hunger. While Lexa unbuckles her gun belt, cracking one eye open to see what she’s doing as she sets it down safely on the nearby dresser, Clarke cups her jaw, pursuing Lexa’s mouth like it’s her own personal quarry.

“Lord, I wanted to bed you from the moment I clapped eyes on you,” Clarke pants out between kisses. “When I saw you walk in. Tight chaps hugging long, long legs. Your hat pulled down low. That face. Those lips. That _jawline_.”

She tilts in deeper, licking inside, and Lexa moans around the slide of tongue. It grows more torrid by the second, heat rising, scorching through Lexa’s veins. She can’t remember the last time she was kissed like this, with such ardour, as though someone’s life and liberty depended on it. By Costia, maybe, but Lexa refuses to dwell on what’s been and gone. Buries that painful thought to concentrate on the here and now instead.

She grips Clarke by the waist, pulling her closer. The soft, delicate lace of Clarke’s chemise bunches under Lexa’s calloused fingers, the warm skin beneath yielding to the pressure, and she relishes it.

“Put your hands on me,” Clarke breathes into the muggy space between their parted lips. “Prove you’re just as skilled at giving pleasure as you are at running down outlaws.”

“I aim to.”

With that, Lexa surges into the next kiss. Takes Clarke’s mouth with gentle ferocity, riled by the challenge in that bold provocation. She drags her hands up Clarke’s sides to fill her palms with the glorious breasts she’s been mentally sizing up and ruminating over all afternoon.

It feels like hitting the mother-lode; Lexa, scarcely able to believe her good fortune. The sad fact of the matter is, it’s been too long since she touched a woman in passion, much less one blessed with such plentiful curves. In these frontier towns, most of the womenfolk are as wiry and muscular as Lexa herself, on account of toiling hard to scrape by, surviving on limited rations through harsh winters and drought-ridden summers. Laying with those girls is like rubbing two sticks together. It’s fine in a pinch, but it isn’t the softness that Lexa craves; _yearns_ for.

Clarke seems to appreciate the attention just the same, if the way she pushes her chest into Lexa’s grasp is any indication, how her kisses grow more demanding. Never letting up, not even for a second, as she ravages Lexa’s mouth.

Lexa has no inkling of how much time has passed when she finally draws back, breath coming in quick, short bursts, eyes heavy and hazy with lust.

She stares, drinking in the beauty before her: the swollen, reddened slash of Clarke’s mouth; the colour high on her cheeks; dark, ravenous eyes that seem to eat Lexa up. She feels the hard poke of nipples through the chemise, twin points grazing the middle of her palms, and it makes her ache something fierce; aroused beyond the telling of it when she hasn’t even gotten Clarke fully undressed yet.

The husky caress of Clarke’s voice pulls Lexa out of her trance.

“What are you waiting for, cowgirl?”

Clarke tenders a saucy wink.

“I’m about to ride you ‘til I’m saddle sore.”

Well, one thing’s for certain: she sure ain’t shy about coming forward.

  
  


~*~

  
  


As one of the deadliest bounty hunters in the West, Lexa’s had no shortage of excitement in her life thus far.

She pursued the notorious Blake siblings across three states lines and saw them hang for murder. Ambushed and gunned down Carl Emerson, ran Charles Pike off a cliff, brought swift justice to a couple dozen other desperados whose names and catalogue of misdeeds she hardly remembers—all for a handsome reward.

(By her reckoning, she’ll soon have a tidy sum saved for that parcel of land she always dreamt of. Then she’ll build herself a modest homestead. Have a few horses in the pasture. Some chickens and a rooster. An orchard to tend. And just maybe she’ll find a woman gracious and persevering enough to put up with her taciturn nature.)

Anyways, none of those accomplishments hold a candle to the thrill of Clarke pitching her hips forward as Lexa’s mouth moves greedily up the line of her throat, sucking on the tender skin below the hinge of her jaw.

Nothing compares to Clarke’s hands groping down Lexa’s naked back, clutching her buttocks for leverage as Lexa’s fingers thrust between milky white thighs spread indecently wide for her.

Hunting the most wanted ain’t a patch on the breathless litany of cuss words gasped hotly into Lexa’s ear as Clarke topples over the edge, dousing Lexa’s hand with a warm spill.

There’s no more exhilarating feeling in the world than the rush she gets from hearing Clarke’s desperate groan. That wanton noise Clarke makes once she realises what Lexa means to do next as she shimmies down the bed. As she throws still trembling legs over her shoulders and hunkers down. Puts her mouth full on Clarke and tastes that nectar; the rich, heady flavour thick on her tongue as she weaves up through the wetness.

Before long, Clarke starts to buck harder than a stubborn stallion fighting to unseat its rider. Hands wrapped in Lexa’s hair, carelessly tugging on the braids while Clarke’s hips roll up. Until with one final jerk, she arches sharply and cries out, a raw, guttural shout that echoes around the room. Through a string of ragged gasps, she shudders and quakes, grinding into Lexa’s eager mouth, toes curling as they slip and slide against the sweat-slick skin of Lexa’s back.

And Lexa doesn’t cease her attentions, running her tongue around Clarke’s pearl with unshakeable focus and determination. Relentless in her desire to draw out more of those delectable whimpers and moans, the violent tremors that speak volumes all on their own too. It’s only when Clarke whines and squirms away, weakly pushing at Lexa’s crown, that she finally leaves Clarke be.

A pleased little grin pulls at Lexa’s lips as she retreats, easing Clarke’s thighs from her shoulders. Gaze roaming over the debauched vista of Clarke splayed open against the twisted sheets. Watching the deep, heaving breaths Clarke takes. Glued to the movement of her chest, to rosy nipples puckered tight and pointing proudly skyward.

But then they find one another’s eyes, Clarke’s black as night— _feral_ —and the hunger rears up in Lexa again, roaring inside of her. Savage and untameable.

She doesn't think twice about prowling forward, about bending low and feasting on those tits.

Except Clarke has other ideas.

Quick as a flash, she has Lexa on her back. Arms braced on either side of Lexa’s head, breasts pushed together and so tantalisingly close to Lexa’s face that if she stuck out her neck she could take one stiff peak between her lips.

She’s fixing to do just that when Clarke’s knocks her thighs apart with a knee. Presses down and in, and Lexa hasn’t got the mental fortitude to stop the choked “fuck” that drops from her lips, or control the jump of her abdominal muscles as a smooth, firm thigh meets the overheated length of her slit.

Clarke lets out a low, wanting noise as soon as she discovers how ready Lexa is. Pretty lashes flutter and Clarke bites her lip, the very picture of seduction, and it makes Lexa wetter still to be on the receiving end of that sultry, half-lidded stare.

Then Clarke starts to move.

Slow at first; the pressure light, not nearly what Lexa needs.

She isn’t even ashamed to speed things along, slinging her leg around Clarke’s hip, rubbing up on the stretch of tensed muscle.

“Attagirl,” Clarke drawls, smug as can be, and Lexa has to grab her by the cheeks to shut her up before she spoils this. Roughly covering that smirking mouth with her own, Lexa prises soft lips open with her tongue and stakes her claim. Worth it for the way Clarke moans when she tastes herself, how she matches the biting brutality with equal heat and vigour.

It makes Lexa feel alive, never so aware of the vitality of her body; blood pumping, heart beating like a banging war drum. Lord, it feels like her heart might beat clean out of her chest.

If she had any wits left about her she might wonder how a girl learned to use her mouth like this; as the most devastating of weapons. But right now, all Lexa can do is be grateful. More so when Clarke hooks a hand behind her knee, urging Lexa on, keeping the momentum of her hips going as she finds the perfect amount of friction and chases, chases, chases.

The dam breaks far faster than she was expecting, a tidal wave that crashes over her so suddenly it catches her by surprise. A startled, ecstatic noise gets trapped between their mouths as Lexa stiffens, every part of her frame pulling taut, clenching tight. Clarke pushes harder, angling her thigh just so, and something deep inside Lexa releases in a hot gush that bathes Clarke’s thigh. Makes her growl into the kiss, redoubling her fervency.

They trade deep kisses long after Lexa’s shivers subside, as though Clarke can’t get her fill. Like she’s drunk on the taste.

Truth be told, Lexa is too.

  
  


~*~

  
  


She only intends to rest her eyelids for a spell, but when she jolts awake the room is cast in a soft, yellow glow from the oil lamp in the corner.

Dusk has fallen. In the distance, rambunctious laughter and rowdy caterwauling leaks out from the saloon into the balmy night.

It takes Lexa a sluggish moment to shake off the fog of sleep. For her brain to catch up to the fact that she must’ve drifted off some time after she came undone so spectacularly from Clarke’s hand on her second go-round.

Clarke, who’s presently draped along Lexa’s side; temple propped on her fist; hooded eyes fixed on Lexa’s face. Practically beaming with pride.

Lexa clears her throat. Offers a brusque “evening” that Clarke answers with a scratchy chuckle.

“I plumb tuckered you out, hm?” she teases. “You were out like a light. Looked so peaceful laying there, I didn’t have the heart to wake you.”

Wearing a slight scowl, Lexa presses her lips together. Works her jaw a little from side to side, stewing in her consternation. Because it isn’t like her to need a nap after a roll in the sheets; she’s earned a reputation for having the stamina and prowess to go all night. Shameful, is what it is.

Must be the past few days of hard riding taking its toll.

Exhaustion from the trail, that’s all.

A gentle touch to her shoulder brings her focus back to Clarke.

“Ain’t no disgrace in laying down your burdens for awhile,” Clarke says softly, like she read Lexa’s thoughts. There’s a tiny crease between her brows that unfurls a second later, a wry smile returning to her lips. “Seems like you needed it. Sleep, I mean.”

A pause.

Clarke’s eyes gleam. She walks her fingers down Lexa’s arm, following the intricate lines of the tattoo that encircles her bicep.

“And the other thing.”

The tips of Lexa’s ears burn under Clarke’s heated gaze, but she doesn’t look away. Arousal stirring once more between her legs when she considers those fingers—two of ‘em—were inside her only a short time ago.

“Must get lonely riding out on your own.”

Lexa’s mouth quirks. “I’m seldom short of fine company when I want it.”

It’s only half true. There ain’t exactly a surfeit of unattached women that are open to unconventional dalliances—outside of the brothels, ‘course. Over the years, Lexa’s had the pleasure of knocking boots with quite a few... _liberated_ sorts, but not in recent months. And none as beautiful as Clarke.

An eyebrow climbs up Clarke’s forehead as she studies Lexa for a beat.

“Oh, I’ll wager you’ve left a string of broken hearts from here to New York.”

“Nope.” Lexa loosens a small sigh. “Never stuck around long enough to make anyone fall for me.”

‘Cept for...

“The love ‘em and leave ‘em type, huh?”

She gives a tight smile. “By necessity rather than choice. Family, sweethearts, they’re an easy target for every sonofabitch hellbent on revenge for the kin you helped put in a hangman’s noose. Safer this way. If you ain’t got no one then you ain’t got nothing to lose.”

Clarke makes a face.

“Well... that’s just fucking tragic.”

“I prefer pragmatic.”

That gets an eye roll and, smiling wider, Lexa shifts onto her side, displacing Clarke’s hand. She lazily trails her own fingers over the curve of Clarke’s bare hip. Quietly pleased by the shiver it evokes, how Clarke wriggles closer.

“And you?” Lexa murmurs. “Got a suitor waiting for you in San Francisco?”

A scoff. “Like hell I do. I need a husband like I need a hole in the head.” Clarke drops her chin and stares at the three-inch raised scar on Lexa’s navel (souvenir of a knife fight with one Robert Quint of Kansas; deceased). Grumbles, “No man is gonna boss me around and get me with child and have me wait on him hand and foot, like some meek, docile little mouse.”

She has no right to feel so, but hearing Clarke’s vehement, immediate rejection of the mere notion of marriage and childbearing relieves Lexa greatly. It lifts a weight off her chest she wasn't even aware was pressing down on her sternum until this very moment.

In the ensuing stretch of silence, her eyes dart around Clarke’s face, searching, oddly charmed by the glower that pulls down the corners of Clarke’s mouth and wrinkles her forehead.

“Who _are_ you?” Lexa says, a note of rapt wonderment in her voice that she doesn't bother to mask. “Where on God’s green earth did you come from?”

Clarke stares at her, guardedness becoming reproach, then slowly giving way to something softer, almost regretful.

“You’re giving me that look again,” Clarke chides, but it lacks any real disapproval.

And this time Lexa makes no attempt to refute the charge. She reaches up to sink her fingers into glossy blonde curls, cups the base of Clarke’s skull to bring her nearer. Lips only an inch apart when Lexa asks, “So what do you plan to do about it?”

Clarke’s eyes are deep, dark, fathomless pools that Lexa could fall into gladly.

“Make you wish we’d never crossed paths,” is Clarke’s whispered reply as her hands land upon Lexa’s waist, warm palms gliding up Lexa’s ribs with purpose.

Leaning in, Clarke captures Lexa’s bottom lip between her own; sucks on it all too briefly, releasing it with soft exhale. They stay close, foreheads and noses touching, breathing the same air.

“Because no other girl can compete, not now or in the future, with the way I’m gonna fuck you.”

Just listening to Clarke talk like that, the sheer audacity of it, steals Lexa’s breath away. She’s no shrinking violet herself, but Lexa could take a few pointers from Clarke on swaggering self-assurance in the bedroom.

“And because, tomorrow, you won’t see me the same.”

Before Lexa can voice her confusion, Clarke kisses her soundly. Those wandering hands reach their destination, curving around Lexa’s tits, and it stops the questions dead in Lexa’s throat. For a few minutes, anyhow.

“I will. I want to,” Lexa intones, solemn and serious, after they separate. Not really comprehending Clarke’s cryptic statement but keen to make her own position clear. “I care not a whit about pernicious gossip, or the judgement of small-minded folks, or whatever it is you think might turn me against you.”

“Oh, Lexa. You beautiful, noble fool,” Clarke mutters, pressing forward to claim another kiss that’s far more tender than all the others that went before.

Even so, it sparks a flame in Lexa.

She pulls the other woman into her arms, pulls Clarke on top. Chases away the doubts Clarke is harbouring with the persuasive power of her mouth and the low slide of her fingers into slick, welcoming heat. Lexa swallows Clarke’s throaty moan and that sound untethers her, makes Lexa soar high above this bed, this dusty boom-town, this land of lush valleys, dense forests and flat, open plains, until the world below is just a speck of twinkling light in the heavens.

  
  


~*~

  
  


Come morning, Lexa emerges from the hotel into the dazzling sunshine feeling altogether lighter, despite the dark smudges under her eyes and the faint strain in her muscles from exertions that continued long into the early hours.

There’s a spring in her step, thanks to the parting kiss she left with. Lips still tingling at the memory, if she concentrates real hard she’s able to conjure the taste again; to feel the pressure of Clarke’s fingers on her cheek and jaw; to picture Clarke’s face in the light that streamed through the slats of the shutters, that _look_ in her eyes when Lexa smirked and told her, “Keep the bed warm. This’ll be over right quick.”

As she strolls down the main street, Lexa spots the boys leaning against the wall outside the general store. With a nod, they amble over and fall into line beside her, matching her easy gait.

“Boss,” Ryder says in greeting.

From the corner of her eye she registers his poorly-concealed grin.

“If you value your hide, you best end that train of thought,” Lexa says calmly, staring straight ahead.

“What?” He sputters and spreads his hands. “Can’t a fella just appreciate the dawning of a new day?”

She responds with a noncommittal hum, but carries on walking.

The Sheriff’s office is a squat, timber-fronted building with an adjoining jail constructed out of thick stone. A trio of sturdy horses are tied to the post outside, nickering at Lexa and her companions as they pass by. She tells the boys to wait by the door and enters alone. Kane is at his desk, surrounded by papers, a fat cigar held between his teeth.

She doffs her hat. “Sheriff.”

Two deputies lounge at the back, but she pays them no mind.

“Woods.” Kane levels her with an aggravated glare. “I heard you rode into town yesterday. What part of ‘urgent’ don’t you understand?”

“I’m here now.”

WIth a deep sigh, he rummages around the piles on his desk and snatches up a sheet of paper. Lexa spies the bold, block capitals of ‘Wanted: Dead or Alive’ but it isn’t until Kane slaps the poster down in front of her that she sees the particulars.

“The Griffin gang hit four banks last month and took over twenty-five thousand in cash,” he begins without preamble. “It don’t take no clairvoyant to predict Arcadia Savings & Loan is next. Rumour has it they’re hiding out in the hills nearby. You’re the best—much as it pains me to say it—and I want you to deliver ‘em. Kicking and screaming or in pine boxes, it don’t matter to me.”

She stares at the poster for a good long minute.

Because there, printed in black ink, is Clarke’s grinning face. Scruffier, wearing men’s attire, but it’s her alright.

Clarke _Griffin_.

Wanted for robbery, horse theft, and cattle rustling. A cool $5,000 bounty on her head.

The colour drains from Lexa’s cheeks.

“There has to be some mistake,” she mutters, half to herself. Eyes boring a hole through the poster, staring so hard it’s in danger of catching aflame.

“No mistake. Thems the facts.” Kane gets up from his seat to stretch his legs. He clasps the thick leather of his gun belt, a hand on either side of the shiny metal buckle. The five-pointed tin star pinned to his jacket winks in the light. “We’ve got irrefutable eyewitness testimony. Heck, Woods, ain’t you been reading the papers? It’s been all over the front pages.”

“I was down Mexico way.”

He squints at her and takes a contemplative puff on his cigar. “You alright? You look like someone just walked over your grave.”

“Fine,” Lexa snaps.

She swallows tightly.

Girds her jaw and marshals herself, ignoring that churning, queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.

In all her years in ‘independent law enforcement’—that’s what it says in elegant copperplate script on her calling card—she’s become highly adept at sniffing out liars, tricksters, and charlatans.

But using silver-tongued deception and her considerable wiles, Clarke managed to pull the wool over Lexa’s eyes. Outfoxed her. If it weren’t so fucking galling, she might _almost_ be impressed.

Just then, there’s a commotion out of the street. The thunderclap of gunshots. Panicked screams. Followed by an ear-rattling explosion. All hell breaking loose.

She shares a leery look with Kane.

“Grab your rifles,” he barks at the deputies and all four of them burst out with their weapons drawn.

It’s pandemonium. There are dozens of folks zig-zagging across the street, ducking into stores and taking cover wherever they can. More shots ring out but Lexa can’t see a damn thing amongst the chaos up ahead.

“What in tarnation is going on?” she demands of Ryder and Gustus, both crouched down low behind a hastily abandoned wagon, the horses already gone and bolted.

“Bank robbery,” is Gustus’s terse reply.

“They done blew the vault,” Ryder adds.

Lexa swears. “Stay here. I’m taking a closer look.”

Ryder’s alarmed protests fall on deaf ears as she sneaks around the wagon, sidles past the blacksmith’s shop then up past the saddler’s place to get a better view of the action.

When the smoke clears and the dust settles, several figures come striding out of the enormous hole in the side of the building, three of them hefting sacks of money while the others provide blanket covering fire in a barrage of bullets. Leading from the front, dual pistols raised and unloading both barrels in the direction of Kane and his deputies, is a woman Lexa recognises in an instant, flyway wisps of her blonde hair fluttering in the breeze beneath a battered hat.

For a moment in the mayhem, a thousand yard stare lands on Lexa, twin chips of flinty blue that she knows will haunt her for the rest of her days. She sees the slow formation of Clarke’s wicked grin even through the bandana that covers the lower half of her face. And in spite of everything, Lexa gets butterflies.

She has a clear shot.

She ought to take it.

But against all sense and reason, she stays her hand; twirls her revolvers and holsters them with a flourish.

Amnesty tendered for one day only.

Next time—and she’s certain there will be another—she won’t be so merciful.

Across the street, Clarke nods in silent understanding. She yells at her gang to mount up and clear on out. Lexa watches them swing into their saddles, her hands curled into fists at her sides, nails dug into her palms, fighting the impulse to pick those bandits off one by one as they ride away.

At the rear, Clarke reins her Paint horse around and tosses an ambiguous look over her shoulder at Lexa. Then with a sudden kick of her heels and a loud “yah!”, she spurs the animal into a gallop, leaving a thick cloud of dust in her wake.

The heavy plod of footsteps approaches. Kane, his deputies, and her boys skidding to a halt behind Lexa.

“Care to explain to me what in God’s name that was about?” Kane spits out, livid.

Lexa glances at him.

Bent over, hands on his knees, his handlebar moustache bristles with every wheezing breath.

“No.”

She looks back towards the horizon, narrowed eyes fixed on the riders shrinking into the distance.

“But I do intend to collect that bounty.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Rejected titles I'm sure everyone is glad I didn't go with:
> 
>   * Gay-zing Saddles
>   * Pale (Thigh) Rider
>   * Hoodwinked by boobs at high noon
>   * The Hoedown
>   * The Thicc and the Dead
> 

> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](http://femininenachos.tumblr.com/)


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